


Presence

by LostGirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, Friends to Lovers, Jealousy, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-03
Updated: 2012-05-03
Packaged: 2017-11-04 18:48:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/397053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostGirl/pseuds/LostGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has recently noticed a shift in his own perceptions, but he can’t quite figure out when it started.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Presence

**Author's Note:**

> Big *HUGE* thanks go to [](http://swissmarg.livejournal.com/profile)[**swissmarg**](http://swissmarg.livejournal.com/) and [](http://bethia.livejournal.com/profile)[**bethia**](http://bethia.livejournal.com/) for the beta and brit-picking magic!! And more big huge thanks to [](http://fennishjournal.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://fennishjournal.livejournal.com/)**fennishjournal** for the advice and pep talk!! And for being awesome. *nods*

Sherlock can’t pinpoint when the shift occurred.

It’s this which occupies his mind. He stares out the window of the taxi, feeling the crime scene—and the case that took him barely a day to solve—receding behind him. It grows smaller with each second, less able to fill the vast spaces of his brain, leaving him with nothing to occupy him. Nothing except the shift.

John is quiet, sitting on the far side of the seat, looking out the other window. The light drizzle leaves raindrops on the glass, running in rivulets that distort the traffic lights. Sherlock uses the reflection in the glass to watch John without being obvious. His eyes linger on the lines of John’s face, so expressive and open. London passes outside the windows, buildings gliding by with only the barest of his notice. Sherlock knows where he is at all times, but it’s automatic now. No distraction.

The cab pulls up outside the flat and Sherlock heads for the door, leaving John to deal with the boring details. They wouldn’t have distracted him anyway.

Up the stairs and inside the flat, Sherlock paces in front of the sofa. John arrives just moments later, stopping inside the doorway to stare at Sherlock.

“So, that wasn’t as interesting as you’d hoped,” he says, and it takes Sherlock a full millisecond to realize he’s talking about the case.

“No.” There doesn’t seem a need for more than that and Sherlock goes back to pacing.

“It is over, right?” John asks, hanging up his own coat and Sherlock’s—which Sherlock threw on the floor when he entered—with neat, precise movements. Sherlock’s gaze wants to stay on John, wants to follow the deft flick of John’s wrists and linger over the bunching of the muscles in his back. Sherlock whirls on his heel, staring out the window onto Baker Street. "Lestrade will be able to grab the creep from the information you gave him?"

Sherlock makes a noncommittal noise, but John doesn't stop staring at him, and it eventually pulls Sherlock around. "Yes. Yes," he says, waving a hand. "Assuming his—admittedly lacking—deductive skills haven't deteriorated since last week. It was more than enough information. Even Anderson would be able to track the man down. Well, maybe not Anderson."

John nods and Sherlock attempts to return to his thoughts.

When did it begin? When was the precise moment? There had been a before, he remembers what that was like, when he would have been alone during the taxi ride home, with no one to share in his victory. When his old flat would have been empty, no one else there to break the ceaseless quiet. Though he hadn’t thought so at the time, the place has gone cold to his memory, bare despite his clutter of possessions. And now there is an after. In his mind, Baker Street is warm, even when it isn’t. It never feels quiet, even when it is. What that means is anything but clear, but at least it is certain. The certainty is comforting, but Sherlock still feels off kilter. He can see the difference, but can't pinpoint its cause, and that spins around in his mind like a half-written word.

“What do you want for dinner? I was thinking of trying something new, but I could also go for some—”

“Must you keep talking?” Sherlock snaps, turning to glare at John.

“Usually,” John says, unfazed. “That is how normal people find out what their lazy git of a flatmate wants for dinner.” He blinks at Sherlock, still waiting for an answer, which only annoys Sherlock further. Must the man be so patient?

“What do I care?” he asks, flinging his hands outward in a gesture somewhere between 'shooing John away' and 'trying to get airborne.'

“Good. So you’ll eat whatever I put in front of you. Nice to know.” John rolls his eyes, and Sherlock goes back to his pacing and his thinking. 

At what moment had things changed? When had he gone from the Sherlock who was largely oblivious to other people to the Sherlock who needed John beside him? Beside him at crime scenes, at meals, when he plays his violin…

Sherlock flops down onto the sofa, pressing his fingers to his chin.

"So, do you want a cup of tea?"

Sherlock blinks, realizing suddenly that John is standing beside him, looking down at him with the exasperated expression that means this isn't the first time he's asked. While John is often quite capable of leaving him to his thoughts, there are times when the man seems determined to interrupt them for the most ridiculous reasons.

_Sherlock, your phone is ringing. Sherlock, there's a client here to see you. Sherlock, you're human and therefore must eat and/or sleep. Sherlock, stop adding nicotine patches._

"Tea?" Sherlock asks, and he knows he sounds as if he's never heard of the substance. That's largely because—for a few heartbeats—he can't fathom what it might have to do with the fact that he's just realized that John could leave. Could move out of the flat. There's nothing, strictly speaking, holding John there. The thought produces a strangling sensation in Sherlock's throat, and how can that not affect his tone?

"Yes," John says. "The hot, brown liquid that is occasionally your only source of sustenance." John pauses, tilting his head and licking his lips in the way he does when he's about to make a joke. "You haven't deleted it, have you?"

"It's unimportant. John, I'm _thinking._ "

"Okay." John holds up his hands in surrender and turns away.

"Two sugars."

"I know."

He doesn’t even blink a while later when John sets a plate of something down on the coffee table and flashes a smile. Yet John’s presence hovers on the edge of his awareness, a warm weight that keeps him grounded even as his mind roams.

John’s presence feels essential now. When Sherlock first met John, he’d only been concerned with whether or not he’d be able to tolerate having another human being in such close proximity. Then Sherlock had found, to his surprise, that he wanted to impress John. With the flat, with himself. It hadn’t taken longer than the first crime scene to know that tolerance would not be an issue.

 _But_ when _did he become so damned important?_ After the cabbie, maybe? Sherlock remembers the flare in his chest when he’d looked over and saw John on the other side of the crime tape. When he finally—how could he have ever missed it?—realized that it had been John’s bullet that had taken Jefferson Hope. Had that been the moment?

Sherlock shakes his head. While that had certainly been something, something tremendous, that hadn’t been the moment of the shift. It hadn't been the moment in which John had become essential. Oh, it had probably primed him, laid the groundwork, but… No.

“I need you beside me.” Sherlock blinks, startled by the words, and sits up. His wide eyes seek out John, but he isn’t in the sitting room. Sherlock’s forehead furrows. John’s book rests abandoned beside his armchair. His tea cup is empty. The plate he'd put on the coffee table is now gone. The lights are out. The flat is restful. John has gone to bed.

 _When?_ Couldn’t have been more than hour ago, but Sherlock hadn’t noticed. He’d still felt John’s presence, there in the room with him. As if he’d been hearing the little sounds made by John’s occupancy: breathing, the turning of a page, the rustle of fabric.

Even when John isn’t there, he is.

Sherlock falls back onto the sofa, staring at the ceiling. He hadn't meant to say that aloud, and yet it is the truth. The fact that he doesn't understand it doesn't change the truth of it. No more than his not understanding gravity allows him to float away. But the thought of telling John, of purposely revealing his own confusion in this matter… His chest clenches at the thought, a lump forming in his throat, and Sherlock is left with a whole new set of questions. Is this friendship? Is this how it feels to have a friend? Needing someone else is… dangerous, to say the least. It gives others far too much power, too much influence. Sherlock cannot risk having his thinking impaired. It's already impaired, because he has spent a good half of the day thinking about John.

_But it isn't as if I had anything else to think about today. I would have probably been bored if not for this._

Either way, Sherlock doesn't sleep that night.

>>

There hasn’t been a case in four days, but the expected boredom hasn’t come. Sherlock can feel it, skulking at the edges of his awareness. A great, hulking beast shy of the fire of his thoughts and simply waiting for them to go out before it descends upon him. He’s been awake for more than thirty-two hours, even though he has no case to work. His brain is still spinning, still occupied.

His surface thoughts are repetitive. He’s been charting out every moment since he and John met, trying to find that one elusive turning point. He’d thought, for a bit, that it might have been Sarah, the date he’d felt compelled to observe. Even if there hadn’t been a case on, he’d have wanted to see, to know what exactly John did on such occasions. He hadn’t been able to see any real differences from the times he and John had gone out, but his own intervention had probably thrown things off course. _The act of observing, and all that._

Sherlock sighs. It hadn’t been that evening either. Of course, when he’d learned that John had been kidnapped, he’d been appalled. Perhaps even concerned. Sherlock has deleted the precise moment of realization, so he can’t be entirely sure now, but… No. John had been useful. He’d enjoyed John’s company, certainly. He’d even, to some degree, wanted to show him off to Sebastian Wilkes, but… John hadn’t been essential. Not like he is now.

The thoughts buzz around and around inside his brain, but underneath that there is more, a plethora of thoughts of which he is only vaguely aware. They churn beneath the surface, his mind turning over what the shift means, what he wants it to mean, whether or not he should risk telling John about it. All the things Sherlock can’t yet bring himself to consciously consider.

Sprawled in his armchair, legs thrown out before him and arms hanging limply over the sides, Sherlock feels the exhaustion. When he has a case, this feeling is easily dismissed. Now, his mind isn’t moving fast enough to overcome the inertia of his body. He feels heavy, too tired to speak, let alone to get up and haul himself into his bedroom. Pulling back the covers would be an enormous feat all on its own.

A thought bubbles up from the subconscious considerations. He wants John to come home, to see Sherlock sprawled out and too tired to move. He wants John to say, ‘All right. That’s it. You can finish thinking tomorrow,’ and trundle him off to his bed. He wants John to pull back the covers, to prod him into lying down. John would turn off the lights and then slide in next to him, his arm wrapping around Sherlock, holding him there. He allows himself to imagine the brush of John’s lips at his temple—

“For the love of God,” John says from the doorway, and Sherlock flicks his eyes up to him. He hadn’t even heard John coming up the stairs. “How long have you been awake? You look awful.”

"Thirty-two—" Sherlock glances at his watch. "—No, thirty-three hours and seven minutes."

"Why haven't you slept?" John asks, hanging up his jacket and putting down his keys. Sherlock lets his eyes follow John. He finds himself doing that a lot lately, noting the details of John's body, reading him for clues.

"Thinking."

John shakes his head. "Thinking that's more important than sleep?"

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at John, wondering if he should actually tell him, but instead shrugs. It's all too confusing in his head; there's no way an average brain like John's would understand it. He needs John by his side, but he can't figure out when it _happened_. And that, of course, must be the key to resolving it. It has to be, because Sherlock knows he can't spend much longer like this. It's probably a good job he hasn't had a case. He can barely think around John.

"Well, whatever it is, it can wait. Get your bony arse to bed. Doctor's orders."

Sherlock raises his head up without moving the rest of his body. “All right.” John being there seems to quiet the questions. As if, in his presence, it matters less when that presence became so important. Another truth Sherlock doesn't understand, but he's too tired to puzzle it out now anyway.

“Yeah?” John looks at him as if Sherlock is some heretofore unknown species. “You’ll get some sleep?” The dubious look on his face makes Sherlock want to grin, but he banishes the desire. After all, one has to choose which thoughts one will make plain.

“Why would I argue with my doctor?” He drops his head back after that. It thumps against the cushions of the armchair and Sherlock smothers a wince.

John huffs. “Never stopped you before.” He smiles. “In fact, I kind of thought it was required.”

“Occasionally, you hit upon a good idea. I’m sure it’s mostly luck.” He’s smiling as he says it, but he can’t remember telling his face to do that. 

“Yeah. Probably. Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t listen this time.” 

Sherlock nods, taking in a deep breath and forcing his limbs to move. As he heads toward his bedroom, his feet slide over the floor. It’s too much effort to pick them up properly. He hears John’s footsteps behind him and his lips twitch into a smile again. He opens his bedroom door and is almost tempted to leave it open, to see if John will follow him inside. Then he hears the faucet turn on, hears the clatter of the kettle.

It isn’t what he envisioned, but it’s close enough. Sherlock pulls back the covers and crawls into bed. As he’s drifting off, he murmurs into his pillow, “Your presence is soothing.”

>>

John is out with that horrible woman. Sherlock deleted her name moments after learning it. She won’t be around long enough for it to matter anyway. He tells himself that, at least. The flat is quiet, hatefully so, and Sherlock spins in a circle in the middle of the sitting room, his dressing gown flapping out around him, trying to find something to dull the edge of his restlessness.

His experiment is on hold until he can get more toes. Molly promised she’d text him when she had some, but his phone is dark and silent. He can’t sit still, so his laptop is useless. He snatches up his violin from where it sits next to his music stand and grabs his bow from the desk.

He plays music to lose himself in, to cut the horrid knots of speculation that keep twisting around the gears of his mind. Are they smiling at one another? (snip) Are they laughing at some private joke? (snip) Why does he hate having to share John with this woman? (snip) Would John look at him that way if he told John about the shift? (snip, delete) For a while, there is only him and the music. The bow, the violin are both merely extensions of himself, as much a part of him as his thoughts.

Yet John is present there as well. Wandering the rooms of Sherlock’s mind as if he has every right to. This bit reminds him of John’s smile. This bit calls to mind the way they run, chasing or chased, legs stretching and breath ragged in their lungs. That bit is the quiet times, when both sit occupied and the world moves around them in hazy, ill-defined patterns.

Lulled by the music, Sherlock finds his thoughts have begun turning around the shift again. If only he had a case to shut out the increasingly annoying speculations. This time, he contemplates moments he has been trying to avoid. That instant, barely even that, when he’d thought John might actually be Moriarty. Ludicrous. He’s ashamed he even thought it now, but then…

He’d actually thought he was going crazy. Of course, then there had been the Semtex, the realization, John’s slight nod to indicate his trust… Sherlock’s fingers stumble on the strings, but he regains control quickly. That moment... He can’t say that was _the_ moment, because he's beginning to think of it as a process rather than single turning point, but that moment is burned forever into his brain. He hasn’t even tried to delete it, despite the discomfort thinking on it causes. He knows it will not budge, will not go quietly. Was it knowing that John could be lost to him that made John so essential? Perhaps, to some degree.

Unfortunately, resolving that mystery only brings on another: _why_ is John so essential? It isn’t just because he’s useful, Sherlock is certain of that. He knows other useful people, but none of them evoke from him the same… Loyalty? Interest? _Feeling_.

Sherlock takes his frustration out on the music and it becomes frantic and wild.

Part of his brain is waiting for the sound of John on the stairs, so when it comes it pulls him from the mire. Sherlock can’t stop playing, can’t turn around to see John because he can hear the lightness of his friend’s steps. A good date then. Otherwise John would walk more heavily, would be upset. There will be more dates. More times when John is not with him.

Sherlock doesn’t like that he wants that heavy tread, that he wants John to have had a horrible time, doesn’t like that it matters at all, but it does nonetheless. John says nothing when he reaches the doorway. Sherlock keeps his eyes focused on the window, but there is John’s reflection against the semi-darkness of the London night. John leans against the doorjamb, his eyes on Sherlock’s back. He smiles and listens, and suddenly the frantic music Sherlock had been playing mellows. His bow soothes over strings his previous playing scraped raw, his hand gentling against the violin’s neck.

John’s smile widens and Sherlock stops playing. He swings the bow crisply down and fits the violin back into its case.

“I hope you’re not stopping on my account,” John says, his voice warm.

“It would be a first,” Sherlock says, but his tone isn’t as sharp as he’d intended. There’s something else, something more complicated, hiding inside the combination of emphasis and tone and word choice, but Sherlock doesn’t bother trying to weed it out.

“You certainly never stop just because I ask you to at three in the morning.” John chuckles, tossing his coat on his armchair. “Cuppa?”

“Yes.” Even as he answers, his eyes move over John’s discarded coat. It’s damp from the drizzle outside, more so than it would be if John had taken a cab home. He walked back to the flat. Sherlock follows John into the kitchen, moving slowly to make it look as if he is merely wandering. With John’s back to him, and his attention on the tea, Sherlock is free to study him. There is a drip of soy sauce on the edge of John’s sleeve. He took the woman to the little Chinese place down the street, a common location for his dates. Yet he walked home, so he was close by. He didn’t go back to her place.

_Why should I feel relief at that?_

His shoes are scuffed. John always polishes them when he has a date. He’s kicked something, a wall perhaps, given the brick dust on his shoelaces. His hair is mussed as well, but not the way it would be from someone else’s hands.

“You’re in a remarkably good mood for a man whose relationship just ended.”

“She turned out to be a pretty awful person,” John replies, flashing Sherlock a grin. Curious.

“You broke it off with her.” Sherlock quells his own grin. John might be smiling, but Sherlock thinks it might be out of bounds for him to do so as well. Or perhaps it isn’t? Is one allowed to smile when one’s friend has broken up with his… frankly horrible girlfriend? Even if he doesn’t seem upset about it?

“No use spending my time with someone I can’t stand.” John holds out the cup of tea he’s made for Sherlock and there’s a particular twist to his smile. Sherlock has seen it before, but can’t quite puzzle out what it means. Their eyes meet as Sherlock takes the proffered cup, their gazes holding for long seconds. Sherlock can’t seem to look away, and the air in the flat has become somehow charged. “Telly?” John asks, and the moment breaks apart.

They both gravitate toward the sofa. Sherlock ignores the program, concentrating instead on the closeness of John’s body, on the sound of his laughter, on the feeling of comfort that wells up in his presence. Those unconscious considerations are, he thinks, working their way closer to the surface. He can sense the shape of them now, of the answers to the questions he hasn’t let himself consider. 

They sit closer together than is usual. Sherlock isn’t sure if that's a result of his moving to tuck his feet up on the sofa, or if they started out sitting down that way. John radiates warmth despite having been outside in the cold drizzle, and Sherlock can’t seem to stop noticing that fact. He wants to slide his feet closer, to warm them against John’s corduroy trousers. He wants to run his toes along the material and feel its rough texture and the solidity of John’s thigh underneath.

The words he’d blurted out a week ago are crowding in his throat again, but Sherlock is now too aware of John’s presence. Is that the kind of thing you're allowed to say to a friend? Is it odd to feel envious of John's dates and the amount of John's time and attention they occupy? He can’t bring himself to actually say it. The words carry too much weight and he cannot knowingly shatter the easiness of the moment.

He lets them dissipate and works his toes just a little closer to John’s leg.

>>

Maybe it was The Woman. Sherlock lies in bed, listening to the sounds of John pacing in the bedroom above, and wonders if Irene started all this. Over the last week he’s been too busy to think on it, and he’d promised himself he wouldn’t anyway, but the case is done now. Two murderers are locked safely away—caught because they were stupid enough to buy the petrol just a block from the arson site. Idiots.— and Sherlock has nothing else to keep the considerations at bay.

In fact, his thoughts are all that prevent him from going upstairs to see if John is all right. It sounded like a particularly bad nightmare. Usually John would have come downstairs by now and Sherlock would pretend to stumble out, half awake and unaware of John’s nocturnal troubles. They would watch late-night telly together on the sofa and Sherlock would distract John by being obnoxious at the adverts.

But John hasn’t come down, and Sherlock is reluctant to go to him. It seems somehow… intimate. He’s not sure John would appreciate it, being caught so soon after one of his dreams.

So, instead, Sherlock stares at the ceiling, listening to John pace, and thinks about Irene. He cannot deny that she was something of a catalyst. Her wit, the way she reflected him back to himself. He hadn’t really given much thought to his own reactions until she’d come along and plucked all his strings. Now, he makes it a point to look at himself, to wonder why he does what he does, why he says the things he says.

And that always seems to lead him back to John. Sherlock has a brief flash of John, rumpled from his disturbed sleep, pacing in his pajamas. Sometimes John sleeps without a shirt, and despite the chill in the air, that’s how Sherlock pictures him. He isn’t sure why the mental image is so alluring, why it takes more than a second or two to brush away. There are things associated with it, a tightening in his gut, a pang of constriction in his chest, and… Oh. Sherlock finds he's getting hard and raises his head to glance down the sheets at himself.

Ah. Yes. That's why the image pulled him in. That's not new, if he is entirely honest with himself. He has found John aesthetically pleasing since they met. And, still being honest, thoughts of John’s hands or the set of his shoulders, the curve of his arse… Well, those images have made appearances while Sherlock was taking care of himself in the past.

Sherlock's mind floods with half-formed images of John’s body. His neck arching, his arms straining as they support his weight above Sherlock, his back as he lies stretched out on a bed… Sherlock’s bed. His shoulders—one perfect and one gloriously imperfect—his back, his…

Biting his lips, Sherlock lets the pain center him, calming his mind.

 _Why now? Why John? What exactly is this?_ The questions do nothing to assuage his desire, and as much as Sherlock wants to dismiss all of this, the answers are becoming clearer. He’s attracted to John. That does away with some of the questions, but not all of them. Not enough of them. He’s been attracted to people before, and it was never this… persistent. Never this involving.

Sherlock moves to take himself in hand, but hears John’s tread on the stairs, coming down. Sighing, Sherlock waits for his erection to subside before he pulls on his dressing gown and sleepily stumbles out into the kitchen to find John making tea.

“I want you,” he says, unthinking. John looks up at him with red, tried eyes.

“What?” He looks startled, unsure.

“Tea. I want some,” Sherlock corrects, nodding toward the kettle and hoping John won’t notice the slip, or the flush he can feel tingling over his face.

“Oh!” John huffs out a laugh, nodding. “Thought you said something completely different.” He reaches up to pull down a second cup and Sherlock has to tear his eyes away from the strip of skin revealed when his t-shirt is pulled up along his back.

Sherlock spins and heads into the sitting room. By the time John joins him with the tea, Sherlock has snagged a blanket and turned on the telly. The heating at Baker Street is old, and he’d banked the fire before he’d gone to bed. The winter air slips in from outside and Sherlock pulls his feet up, arranged so that he can cover most of himself with the blanket. John smiles at him, shaking his head.

“You look like an overgrown twelve-year-old.”

“At least I’d be overgrown for twelve.”

John narrows his eyes, but he’s still grinning. “Give me some of that blanket, you ridiculous beanpole.”

Sherlock stifles a smile, rolling his eyes and contriving a look of annoyance as he untucks the blanket on one side and tosses it toward John. John has to scoot a little closer to get under it. Not so close that they are touching, but close enough that Sherlock is uncomfortably aware of the line of John’s body beside him.

“There is no way that thing is worth the money,” John says after a silent moment.

“Hmmm.”

“I mean, what use is it except with eggs?”

“It might actually be very useful for separating blood from—“

“No,” John interrupts. “Don’t tell me. It’ll put me off eggs.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him, but John just shrugs and they’re quiet once more. John’s hand is shaking; the intermittent tremor sometimes returns after a very bad night. Though he knows that John doesn’t want to talk about it, Sherlock cannot help but deducing from the clues all over John’s body. His eyes are red, not from tears but from rubbing. His hair is mussed from the repeated sweep of his own fingers. Patches of it are lank from dried sweat. He didn’t limp when he came downstairs, but his leg is causing him some pain because every now and then he rubs at it absently. When there’s a loud sound from the telly, John jumps just a little.

“You’re staring at me again,” John says, without ever taking his eyes from the program.

“Hmm.” They’ve had this discussion before. He stares at John quite a lot, and usually John doesn’t seem to mind, but there are times when it clearly unnerves him. Sherlock doesn’t bother to deny it or look away, and eventually John’s eyes turn to meet his.

“So?” he asks. At Sherlock’s raised eyebrow he adds, “What do you see on my face tonight?”

Sherlock considers all the things he could say. They flash through his mind at the speed of lightning, flickering through and briefly illuminating his brain before each goes dark. John doesn’t want to know, despite asking. He doesn’t want to hear that Sherlock knows he’s been up and pacing for over half an hour, or that Sherlock heard his strangled shout of pain and fear. John doesn’t want Sherlock to know the terror that led him to press his hands into his eyes, or the way he’d tried to convince himself that everything was all right by burying his fingers in his hair and pulling, trying to ground himself in the now instead of the then. If he’d wanted Sherlock to see any of that, he wouldn’t have hidden upstairs for so long tonight.

“You need more sleep,” Sherlock says, reaching for his tea to help divert the conversation. “I have some fairly strong sleeping pills, if they’ll help.”

“Why do you have—“ John holds up a hand. “—No, don’t tell me that either. I don’t want them. They leave me completely useless the next day.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, “That’s why I still have them.”

John snorts. Then he pulls his own legs up onto the sofa, turning so that he’s facing Sherlock instead of the television. The position makes the space between them feel lessened, and Sherlock finds his own body responding, turning him to face John. 

“When I was little, if Harry or I had a nightmare my dad used to come in and inspect the room with a torch and a tire iron.” John’s laugh is soft and somehow choked. “I really thought he would beat any monsters to death with it. It was pretty easy to get back to sleep after that.”

Sherlock chuckles at the mental image of a tiny John Watson, afraid of monsters under his bed. “Shall I find a torch?”

“Here?” John shakes his head. “No use, the batteries are always dead.”

Sherlock hesitates for a moment and then finds himself saying, “Mycroft used to poke under the bed with an umbrella.” John’s laugh, this time, is unburdened and Sherlock smiles. “I would tell him it was ridiculous, since there were no such things as monsters, but since I always seemed to be standing as far from the bed as I could get…” Sherlock shrugs. “He would say, ‘I should check anyway, just to be sure. Can’t have my little brother eaten by some imaginary beastie. What would the neighbors think?’” Sherlock shakes his head. He hasn’t thought about that in ages.

“Now he just sets up cameras to watch your every move.”

Sherlock harrumphs. “And the ‘beasties’ aren’t imaginary.”

“Yeah.” John drawls out the word and they both go quiet. For Sherlock’s part, he’s thinking of Semtex and the malevolent red light of a sniper rifle’s sight. “Well,” John eventually continues, “there goes any hope I had of getting back to sleep tonight.”

“Cluedo?”

“No. Not ever again, Sherlock.”

“I’ll let you win.”

“We’re not playing, but no, you wouldn’t.”

“No. I probably wouldn’t.”

“Too bad there’s no case.”

“Yes. Yes, it is.”

They both turn back to the telly.

>>

The game is on, as is the chase.

Sherlock runs through an alley, barely hesitating as he comes up against a short fence. He’s up and over it, hesitating only long enough to hear John clamber over behind him before he’s off again. His blood is pumping in his veins, his breathing short and sharp and clouding in the invigorating air. Alleys fly by, but Sherlock can still see their suspect. He keeps close, lagging only when he worries he’ll lose John if he goes any faster.

Luckily, he knows the city, and there is but one place the man—a petty thief who got roped into performing a hit—can be going. Sherlock slows a little, but keeps it natural so that John won’t notice. Instead of chasing after the suspect, he takes a shortcut, heading for the abandoned warehouse where the man has been stashing his stolen goods.

The warehouse is tumbling down in places, some of the metal supports rusted and bits of scaffolding littering the ground. Sherlock can hear their man panting and trying to get the air back in his lungs. He turns the corner, spots him bent over with his hands on his knees, trying to keep to the shadows as if they’ll protect him. The man looks up, sees Sherlock, his eyes widening and then going hard.

Sherlock knows the man will lunge at him. He’s braced for it and still it knocks him to the ground. He braces himself again, his feet firmly against the floor to throw the man off him when he lunges.

It never comes. Instead, Sherlock hears the click of John switching off the safety of his gun and the man goes still, his eyes focusing somewhere over Sherlock's prone form.

“Touch him again, and you’ll be leaving in an ambulance instead of a police car.” John’s footsteps stop and his presence is a joy. His panted breath is a reassurance that all is right with the world. The sound of sirens coming closer seems to drive the point home, and the man raises his arms. John moves behind him, putting the gun away once the man can’t see it, and the suspect keeps still until Lestrade arrives to cuff him, to lead him away.

Sherlock can’t stop grinning. Donovan gives him a wary eye, but her poisonous stare is nothing to him. Not when John is beside him, grinning just as widely, his gun safely concealed. The man will say John had it, and John will deny it, and Lestrade will believe—pretend to believe—John.

They will have a late dinner and John will laugh at his stories. John will make tea when they get back to Baker Street and Sherlock will let him turn on the telly. John will pretend to be aggravated when he gives away the ending of whatever ridiculous show they watch. As they have for the last week, they’ll sit close enough that Sherlock can feel John’s body heat.

For a moment, Sherlock’s world feels almost perfect.

“You’re grinning like a loon,” John says, his own smile widening.

Sherlock means to say ‘I’m hardly alone,’ but what actually comes out is, “I think I’m in love with you.” He freezes, but tries to keep his own surprise and anxiety off his face. The words, which had been building in his subconscious for weeks now, seems to drag silence in their wake.

John’s eyes go round. He glances in the direction of Lestrade and Donovan—thankfully out of earshot—and then back to Sherlock, who feels as if this small gesture takes an eternity.

"We'll talk about this when we get home," he says, his eyes lingering on Sherlock's for a long moment before he glances away, back to the Scotland Yard team.

Sherlock opens his mouth, but then closes it, unsure what he would have said. He narrows his eyes at John, who now seems to be refusing to look at him. _Shit._ He knew better than to say that, or at least, he would have if his brain had just done its damn job and considered the words before letting them tumble out.

Lestrade approaches, apparently oblivious to the tension. "I'm definitely going to need your statements tonight," he says, looking from Sherlock to John. "The guy's claiming you two attacked him and held him at gunpoint."

As closely as Sherlock is watching John, even he can only see the subtlest signs of nervousness. _Well done, Watson._

"The man is clearly just looking to shift the attention," Sherlock proclaims, straightening his gloves and tearing his eyes away from John. There is no way he is going to Scotland Yard tonight. He already, apparently, will have to wait until John decides they're in private before he can find out how badly his mistake will cost him.

There's a knot in his chest, but Sherlock refuses to acknowledge it, to even consider what it might be or might mean. _That kind of thinking is what got me into this trouble to begin with._ "You will find the knife the man used to commit the murder in his apartment," Sherlock says, raising his voice so that the suspect standing over by the police car can hear him. "He should have gotten rid of it, but he won't have. Proof of his deed, which his employer will require. He's not smart enough to have planned this out on his own."

"Hey!" comes a shout from the police car, not ten feet away. "I am so smart enough!" Lestrade and Donovan both turn raised eyebrows on the man and he seems to realize what he's said. "But I never done it."

Sherlock snorts, automatically turning to share the humor with John. The two of them look at each other for a few seconds that seem—impossibly—to last longer. John's smile has that twist in it again, the one Sherlock can never quite decipher, but then Lestrade is speaking, distracting him.

"Still going to need your statement about tonight," he begins, but John cuts him off.

"Sherlock hasn't eaten in two days, and I don't think he's slept in three, can we—"

Lestrade holds up his hands, nodding. "But it can wait until the morning. Sherlock looks paler than I've ever seen him. Have a steak or something, mate. You look like you're about to fall over." The last Lestrade delivers over his shoulder as he heads back toward Donovan and the suspect.

Soon, he and John are alone in the empty warehouse, and Sherlock decides he's not going to wait. "What I said, earlier…" he begins, adjusting his scarf, which had come undone somewhere during the tussle. He's not really sure what comes next. 'I didn't mean it?' or 'You shouldn't take it too seriously' will probably get the desired reaction—John shrugging off the whole matter and not moving out—but Sherlock's not sure he can say either of them. Not with any conviction.

John shakes his head. "I'm not…" He gives a laugh that has very little humor in it. "It's just a little confusing and… When we get home, all right?"

Sherlock doesn't want to agree, but really what choice does he have when he can't even speak? They walk back to the road and Sherlock misses the post-case euphoria already. Usually, he and John would be planning dinner, not suffering through strained silence. It makes Sherlock uncharacteristically nervous. Silence is not usually strained to him. He doesn't usually care enough what another person is thinking about during it for it to be so.

He hails a taxi and slouches inside, jamming himself tightly into the corner and looking pointedly out the window. Except he can see John's reflection there, and John keeps glancing at him. Not sure whether that bodes ill or well, Sherlock tries to turn his mind to something, anything other than John Watson. The city slips by again, and Sherlock is reminded of how this all started, of another cab ride on a rainy day. Tonight it isn't raining as they sit silent after the successful conclusion of a case, but the shift still occupies him.

Is he actually in love with John? The words popped out, but now that he has time to think about it… Well, it puts the last month in perspective. The way his thoughts kept turning back to the man, how he'd felt when John had been out with a woman, the less than 'pure' thoughts he'd found himself returning to with _alarming_ regularity.

But love is one of those feeling things. Sherlock finds that his reflection has begun sneering at him, and so makes an effort to blank his face again. Feelings, he well knows, don't necessarily work that way. Just because it explains his actions doesn't mean it's true. Jealousy, love, hate: they all frequently motivate the same sorts of actions. There are distinctions, of course, but those only become clear after careful observation and examination. How does he observe himself for signs of love?

Sherlock shakes his head.

"We're here," he hears John say, and turns, blinking, to find that they have indeed reached Baker Street, and the way both John and the cabbie are looking at him probably means they've been there for at least a minute.

He actually failed to realize where he was. That has to be a sign of something, although Sherlock isn't entirely sure what.

>>

Both he and John are quiet as they climb the stairs. Sherlock catalogues the various tensions in his body, from his shoulders right down to his gut. He should speak first, take back what he said, and then maybe they could get back to the night they should have had. Sherlock nods to himself, and whirls around to face John.

But when he turns he finds John in the doorway, looking at him, and he can't find any words to say. It's as if the way John's looking at him has deleted the entire English language.

"Did you mean it?"

Sherlock takes embarrassingly long to understand what it is that John's asking. And even once he does, he can't seem to find words. Of course he meant it, but is that the right answer? What does John want to hear? Sherlock hesitates too long and John takes a step forward.

"Sherlock? Did. You. Mean. It?" Each word is a step, bringing John closer until he all but fills Sherlock's field of vision.

Sherlock blurts out, "Yes."

John tilts his head, considering. Sherlock has no idea what John sees on his face and for the first time he thinks he gets why others find that so unnerving. Then John's eyes dart down to his lips. Sherlock swallows hard, his own gaze moving to John's parted lips, his slightly open mouth.

When his gaze finally makes it back up John's face, it's to find the man eyeing him, his expression speculative.

"Prove it," John says, his mouth quirking up at the corners.

Sherlock blinks, shaking his head. He doesn't have time to decide how to respond to that, because John is kissing him. Stunned, Sherlock is motionless for a heartbeat, and then his body bypasses his mind and he's kissing back, pressing forward to get more of John's firm lips against his own. John's hands come up, one resting on his neck and the fingers of the other pushing into his hair, pulling him down as John nips at his lower lip.

Sherlock gasps and John takes advantage, his tongue slipping in and exploring Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock's hands rise of their own accord, but he hesitates for a moment, unsure where to put them, and then finally they settle on John's back, pulling their bodies together.

John moans into his mouth and Sherlock is lost. His focus narrows in to the places where their bodies touch: lips, chest, hips—Oh, God, he's getting hard. The thought tries to settle as panic in his stomach, but the way John is pressing forward, rubbing their bodies together, dispels any anxiety before it can even take hold.

The kiss ends far too quickly, and Sherlock moves after John, chasing his mouth. But John grins up at him. John's smile makes something turn over in Sherlock's stomach and the sensation is somewhat alarming, but not unpleasant.

"Good," John says, although he sounds distracted. He's panting, his chest moving with each breath, and his hands are still on Sherlock, the thumb on his neck rubbing circles over Sherlock's jugular. For his part, Sherlock's hands are clenched in the fabric of John's shirt, just under his shoulder blades. Their bodies are still pressed close, although not as close as Sherlock would like.

Sherlock presses himself into John's touch, his mouth open and his eyes half-lidded. He can't take his gaze off John's mouth, can still feel the press and heat of it against his own.

John's eyes are focused on his own hand, presumably watching the brush of his thumb against Sherlock's neck. John's mouth is slightly open, his breathing quick as it gusts against Sherlock's jaw. Then John's eyes flick up to meet his and Sherlock feels a jolt that goes straight through him, down to his cock, down to his toes, curling them into his shoes. And they are both moving again, hands grabbing at each other, mouths colliding. Sherlock feels teeth against his lower lip and moans, his body pressing forward, pushing against the warm weight of John's. His hips jut forward, his straining cock rubbing along John's lower belly. John is erect as well, grinding against Sherlock's thigh and making noises Sherlock can't even classify, not yet at least.

The hand on Sherlock's neck moves to the nape, pulling Sherlock down, and John's other hand is gripping Sherlock's hip, providing leverage to pull their bodies as close as possible.

"Want you," John breathes against his mouth, and Sherlock is vaguely embarrassed at the whimpering sound he makes. He pushes his hands up under John's jumper, reveling in the warmth of the man's skin. He hadn't accounted for that, hadn't imagined how good it would feel to have John beneath his fingertips, to be able to map out his body this way.

John's hands move, smoothing along Sherlock's shoulders and then down his back. He rubs circles along the length of Sherlock's spine, his hands so intensely warm that Sherlock can feel the heat even through his jacket and shirt. Their kiss ends and Sherlock leans his forehead against John's. John's hands settle on his hips, pulling their bodies close, his cock pushing against Sherlock's thigh.

He lets out a loud, absolutely indecent groan, and Sherlock thinks it might just be the best sound he's ever heard. He files it away along with the feel and temperature of John's skin, and the way John flushes when he's aroused. Sherlock's eyes focus on the visible beating of John's pulse and he's seized by the sudden urge to taste it. He lunges in, licking and sucking at the spot.

John thrusts his hips forward, grinding against Sherlock's erection, making him pant against the crux of John's neck and shoulder. He nips gently at the flesh beneath his lips, pressing himself hard against John. He darts his tongue out to taste the sweat and soap and the vague hint of cologne, all of them melding together with the actual taste of John's skin.

"You taste like chemistry." Sherlock sucks harder, grinding his hips against John. John nudges him, pushing him gently toward the desk. It takes shamefully long before Sherlock realizes what it is John wants, but when he understands he takes the few steps back, sitting on the edge of the desk without pulling his mouth from John's throat.

The angle is better. When he pulls John to him, to stand between his thighs, John's body fits perfectly against his own. Their cocks meet, the friction creating delicious sensations even through the layers of fabric between them.

"Fuck, Sherlock," John breathes, tilting his head back, which makes it much easier for Sherlock to get at it, nipping at the skin. His hands tighten on Sherlock's hips.

"Maybe next time," Sherlock says, delighting in the shudder that moves through John's body. They thrust against one another, Sherlock calculating just how long it will be before John's legs give out. Orgasm builds in his stomach, jolts of sensations sizzling along his nerves. Then John's hand is on him, making short work of his zip and thrusting inside Sherlock's trousers, grasping and firm and utterly _perfect_.

Sherlock moans into John's shoulder, biting at his collarbone. John's grip tightens and Sherlock thrusts helplessly, as much as his position allows, overwhelmed and quickly losing brain power. He makes a noise somewhere between a whimper and a moan, his body trembling as orgasm tightens his muscles and sends warmth flooding through him.

John's breath is loud in Sherlock's ear, Sherlock's forehead pressed to his neck. "Gorgeous."

Sherlock huffs out a laugh, trying to pull himself together. It's only then that he realizes John is stroking himself as well, and that fact drags him out of his haze. Sherlock reaches out, laying his hand atop John's.

"Let me," he murmurs against John's neck, nipping lightly as his fingers intertwine with John's, as he takes over stroking John through his trousers.

"Christ, yes," John answers back, his voice rough and low. Sherlock wastes no time getting John's zip down, slipping his fingers inside. John's erection is warm and heavy through his pants, and Sherlock rubs along the length, pulling a desperate, needy sound from John's lips. John presses himself as close to Sherlock as he can get and though it makes the angle awkward, Sherlock can't imagine telling him to move. John's forehead rests against his chin, his hair tickling Sherlock's nose, the smells of shampoo and sweat and sex mixing in the air.

Wrapping his fingers around John's cock, reveling in the firm feel of it, Sherlock squeezes just to hear what sound John will make. The resulting moan gets filed away under 'must hear again,' and Sherlock begins stroking in earnest, taking in all of John's reactions for later categorization. John clings to Sherlock, his body rocking into Sherlock's grip as he gasps "Yes. God, yes. Just--oh, fuck--just like that."

He lifts his face when he climaxes, his eyes squeezed shut and his mouth open in a loud groan, his hips pressing hard into Sherlock's grip. Then he all but collapses, leaning heavily against Sherlock, who wriggles his hand free of John's pants and then surreptitiously wipes his hand on John's trousers.

"Felt that."

Sherlock suppresses a smile at the sleepy sound of John's voice. There is a more important point to establish, after all.

"I take it you're... not moving out?"

John snorts. "Because you wiped come on my trousers? I've put up with worse."

"Because I..." He can't say it again. He's not sure how he got it out the first time, except that he hadn't known the words were coming.

John begins to pull away, but Sherlock tightens his grip on John's hips. The conversation is difficult enough without having to look John in the face.

"No," John eventually says. "Not going anywhere."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [【翻译】你的存在](https://archiveofourown.org/works/918697) by [rosyrain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosyrain/pseuds/rosyrain)




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